When he died the late ’50s split-level bungalow stopped breathing. But his widow preserved the place, nicely, like a curator might so that by the time I visited, it was a time capsule containing things from happier times. I met Queenie through her son, himself a solitary, acquired taste. She was lovely, and I felt ashamed for my voyeurism. When she passed fifteen years ago the house began to putrefy. The son is now mad; his sister madder still. They buried her ashes by the dried and cracked shell of her once-lovely lily pond, then they dug her up again.
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Mei' Autozzhe' un' isch! - A week of vibrancy. The carousel was closed (who has ever heard of such a thing?!). A small boy and I pressed our noses up against the glass. We discussed ...
5 days ago